Fionn and Dara could hear the shouts of the search party in the distance. But it was impossible to reach them through the dense mist. Then, close by, they heard a woman’s voice calling. They groped their way out of the brambles into a clearing, where they almost fell over a beautiful young woman, slumped on the ground and looking very distressed.
‘How do you come to be here alone in this forlorn place?’ Fionn asked, gently lifting her to her feet.
‘My husband and I were on our way to Tara when we heard the sound of hounds in chase,’ she said. ‘He went off to see the hunt, saying that he would return quickly. After waiting for a while I decided to follow him, but this terrible cloud came down and I lost my way.’ Her voice broke on the last words, as she tried to hold back her tears.
‘What is your name?’ Fionn enquired.
‘I am Glanluadh, and my husband is Lobharan.’
‘My name is Fionn Mac Cumhaill, and this is Dara.’
‘You must be the great leader of the Fianna!’ the woman exclaimed. ‘I am glad that I have met you, for I know that you will protect me and help me to find my husband again.’
‘The Fianna are always glad to help a woman in distress,’ Fionn said. ‘But it will not be easy to find your husband in this fog that blinds us.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘However, we will do our best.’
The three of them set off slowly, hoping to make their way into clearer air. They had gone only a short distance when they heard the sound of sweet music all around them. It was music such as none of them had ever heard before; it seeped into their heads and took over their senses. As the sound gradually grew louder they felt themselves becoming weak and drowsy. Their eyelids drooped and their knees buckled, until, finally, they sank to the ground in a deep and dreamless sleep.
When they woke up, the mist had disappeared. Fionn looked around and saw that they were lying on the edge of a big lake. The part nearest them narrowed to a channel. A large, many-towered castle stood on the shore directly opposite them.
As they stared across at the castle, two figures emerged through the gateway; a huge ugly giant and a pretty woman with a mass of auburn hair flowing over her shoulders. The two walked briskly to the lakeside and dived straight into the water. Swimming strongly, they quickly reached the side on which Fionn, Dara and Glanluadh were standing.
‘I do not like the look of this pair,’ Dara muttered as the giant and his companion strode towards them.
Fionn was about to greet them when the giant reached out with his huge hands, grasped the three of them by the neck, and frogmarched them down to the lakeshore.
Fionn and Dara were still too weak from the effects of the enchanted music to raise a finger to free themselves or Glanluadh. The giant and the woman jumped back into the water, hauled the three captives unceremoniously across the lake and tossed them up on the far side.
The giant shook Fionn until his teeth rattled in his head. ‘At last I have you in my power, Fionn Mac Cumhaill! Soon my sister and I will have our revenge for all the suffering you and your treacherous Fianna have caused us.’
‘You are mistaken,’ Fionn protested. ‘I have never seen you or your sister before in my life. How can I have caused either of you any harm?’
The giant gave Fionn another furious shake.‘You lie!’ he roared. ‘I am Draoiantóir and this is my sister, Ailne. You treacherously killed her husband, Mergach, and my own two sons at the battle of Cnoc an Áir.’
‘I remember that battle well,’ Fionn said. ‘I did not kill Mergach or anyone else through treacherous means. They were slain in fair combat. The Fianna have no need to kill by treachery.’
‘I do not believe you!’ the giant bellowed. ‘You foully killed Mergach and my sons, and you and any other members of the Fianna that fall into my clutches will pay for that with your lives.’
The giant then dragged Fionn, Dara and Glanluadh into the castle. He pushed them down steep steps and, fixing chains tightly around their wrists and ankles, he flung them against the far wall of a dark, damp dungeon. ‘You can rot here in the dungeon until I am ready to deal with you,’ he snarled as he slammed the door behind him, leaving his captives shivering in the cold and wondering what dreadful fate awaited them.
The other members of the Fianna were still searching desperately for Fionn and Dara. Although the mist had disappeared they could find no sign of the pair. The sound of the Dord Fianna had long since faded away. And even if they could still hear it they would no longer have trusted it, fearing that it would only lead them astray again. ‘I think that Fionn and Dara have been spirited away by some magical spell,’ Oisín said. ‘In that case, they are in mortal danger. We must keep on searching.’
Oscar put his hand on his sword-hilt. ‘And, if we find the magician who played this trick on us, we will make him sorry he ever heard of the Fianna!’
A key rasped in the lock and the door to the dungeon creaked open. Ailne entered and stared down at Fionn, a gloating smile playing on her lips.
‘Look now at the great Fionn Mac Cumhaill,’ she mocked, ‘lying there like a helpless infant!’ She reached out and struck him across the face. ‘Are you prepared to die?’
‘We do not deserve this,’ Fionn said quietly. ‘It was wrong to deprive us of our strength by magical tricks and to throw us in this filthy hole without a morsel of food or a drop of water.’
‘I have no pity for you!’ Ailne hissed. ‘I only wish that the rest of that band of murderers known as the Fianna were festering in this dungeon with you.’
‘At least release this good woman, Glanluadh,’ Fionn pleaded. ‘You can have no quarrel with her. She has no connection with me or the Fianna. She happened on us by chance when we were all lost in the mist. There is no reason why she should suffer with us.’
Ailne glanced at Glanluadh. ‘Is this true?’ Glanluadh nodded. ‘I was travelling to Tara with my husband when I was caught in the fog and went astray.’
Ailne thought for a little while. ‘Well, since you took no part in the deaths of my husband and nephews, you do not deserve my revenge. I am prepared to let you go.’
She released Glanluadh from her chains and led her out of the dungeon. The door was slammed tight and the key turned in the lock again. Fionn and Dara were left with their thoughts in the cold clammy darkness.
Ailne brought Glanluadh to the castle kitchen and gave her some food to eat. But Glanluadh was too weak to swallow anything and she collapsed to the floor. Ailne knelt beside her and put a golden drinking-horn filled with a pale liquid to her former captive’s lips. As soon as Glanluadh had swallowed a few drops, all tiredness left her and she felt well and strong again. Springing to her feet, she thanked Ailne for her kindness.
‘You are free to go now,’ Ailne said.
‘What will happen to Fionn and Dara?’ Glanluadh asked.
‘They will remain in the dungeon until it is time for them to die,’ Ailne replied, with a grim smile.
Glanluadh dropped to her knees. ‘Please let me bring them some food and drink before they die. Whatever they may have done to you, they protected me and showed me great kindness. Let me do this one thing for them before they are killed.’
‘They will not be killed just yet,’ Ailne said. ‘My brother and I plan to use them as bait to lure other members of the Fianna here and complete our revenge.’
‘All the more reason for giving them food and drink now,’ Glanluadh urged. ‘It will help to keep them alive until you have trapped their comrades.’
Ailne thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Very well, you may give them some food and drink, but I will be watching, so no tricks, or you will rejoin them, and this time I will not be so merciful.’
Accompanied by Ailne, Glanluadh returned to the dungeon with food and water. Fionn and Dara had grown even weaker. Glanluadh’s heart was filled with pity, but Ailne stared down at them with a callous look on her face. She watched carefully as Glanluadh gave the food and drink to the prisoners.
They a
te slowly but gulped the water down their parched throats. ‘Enjoy the meal while you can,’ Ailne sneered. ‘It may be your last.’
On the other side of the lake, the frantic search for Fionn and Dara was still going on, but, as time passed without any sighting, the Fianna were beginning to give up hope. Then there came an excited barking from Fionn’s hounds, Bran and Sceolaing; they had picked up their master’s scent. Straining at their leashes, the two dogs led the Fianna along a path which slanted down to the lakeshore.
The warriors stopped and stared across the narrow channel at the castle on the other side. Then, without hesitation, they plunged into the grey waters and swam across. As they approached the castle, Oisín ordered: ‘Be ready with your weapons!’ They drew their swords and went up to the castle gate.
Draoiantóir chuckled softly as he and Ailne watched from a tower high up in the castle. The Fianna warriors were walking straight into their trap! The giant slowly raised his hand; a bolt of blue light flew from his index finger and struck the group below. At once all the strength drained out of their bodies, and the warriors fell to the ground in an enchanted sleep.
Ailne and her brother ran down and dragged the helpless warriors into the castle. When he had shackled their arms and legs, Draoiantóir carried the prisoners down to the dungeon and flung them in beside Fionn and Dara.
‘Now I shall take revenge on all of you for the deaths of my sons and Mergach!’ he said, loosing his sword from the belt at his waist. Then a man’s voice came from upstairs, and Draoiantóir, fearing that he had been tricked, ran back up to confront the speaker.
A tall, dark-haired man was standing in the kitchen, talking to Ailne and Glanluadh.
‘Who are you?’ Draoiantóir demanded harshly.
‘This is my husband, Lobharan,’ Glanluadh replied. ‘He heard the sound of the hounds and followed me here.’
Not believing her, and suspecting that Lobharan had come to help the Fianna, the giant grabbed hold of him and, despite Glanluadh’s pleas, carried Lobharan down to the dungeon where he threw him in beside the others.
‘I will make doubly sure that none of you can escape from here!’ he said. Once more he extended his magical right hand and his prisoners found themselves fixed to the floor, unable to move a muscle.
‘Whatever gods you pray to,’ he said, ‘pray to them now.’ Draoiantóir drew his great sword and strode over to Conán Maol. ‘I’ll start with you, fat man!’ he roared.
Although Conán Maol was always boasting about his bravery and his great prowess in battle, in reality he feared death more than anybody else. As the broad blade was raised over his head he was gripped with a terror greater than he had ever felt before. He heard a rushing in his head, the blood surged through his veins, and a strange and unnatural strength coursed into his body.
With a mighty leap, he rose high in the air, evading the blow from the giant’s sword. But, in doing so, he left the skin from his back behind him on the floor. The furious giant followed him with upraised sword. ‘You shall not escape me again!’ he roared.
‘Wait!’ Conán cried out. ‘Look at how injured I am.’ He turned to show his back, which was bleeding and raw from neck to waist. ‘Let me die of my wounds.’
The giant hesitated and slowly lowered his sword. He laughed evilly. ‘A slow death is a painful death. Yes, I will leave you to die slowly in front of your friends. Your screams will make them suffer all the more. Then, when you have met your wretched end, I will send them to theirs.’ He stamped out and locked the door.
Lobharan looked at Fionn who was lying near him. ‘Glanluadh told me that there is a magical drinking-horn upstairs in the kitchen. If we could drink from that, it would free us from whatever spell is upon us.’
Fionn shook his head gloomily. ‘If only we could reach it … but I can see no way of getting out of this dungeon.’
Oisín and the others agreed. Their feet and hands were chained, their strength had been drained from them, and the magician’s spell had bound them to the floor. Despite their best efforts, they could do nothing.
Conán was the only one who had some strength, and, in spite of his injuries, he resolved to try and get a drink from the drinking-horn. But first he would have to outwit the giant. Each person in the group came up with a plan but someone else always had a reason why it wouldn’t succeed. It seemed impossible.
At last they heard the key being turned in the lock and Draoiantóir clumped in, his sword in his hand. He went over to Conán and stared down at him.
‘Are you not dead yet?’ he growled. ‘I am tired of this waiting.’ He raised his sword high over Conán’s head.
Conán held up his hand and spoke. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what a great feat it will be, to kill a man already mortally wounded! Is it the custom in Iceland to kill those who are already dying? What kind of honour is that? You accused us of foully murdering your sons, but now you plan to avenge their honourable deaths by this shameful deed. When they talk of this day by the fires in years to come, the storyteller will recount how the mighty magician, Draoiantóir, bravely killed Conán Mac Morna, a fat, bald defenceless man, wounded and hardly able to stand!’
Conán laughed. ‘Oh, your name will be remembered, all right, Draoiantóir, remembered as a coward.’
‘A coward? How dare you call me a coward!’ the giant roared in a voice like thunder and his face turned so red it looked as though he was about to explode.
‘Well,’ Conán replied, ‘if you are not a coward then make me whole again and we will see how brave you are confronting a warrior of the Fianna in all his powers.’
‘Ailne!’ Draoiantóir yelled up the stairs. ‘Bring me the drinking-horn.’
Conán’s eyes lit up with hope when he heard Ailne’s footsteps on the stone stairs. But they clouded again in disappointment when he saw that she carried not the magical drinking-horn he had expected, but a large woolly sheepskin.
‘Put this on his back,’ Ailne instructed her brother. Draoiantóir took the sheepskin and placed it firmly on Conán’s raw back. His wounds were instantly healed.
‘Now,’ Ailne said, ‘kill him!’
The giant raised his sword and advanced on Conán. The great blade flashed down with deadly purpose. Then, at the last second, Draoiantóir jerked back and the blade whistled harmlessly past Conán’s left shoulder.
No one was more surprised than Conán to find that he still had his head. With both hands he felt around his neck as though only by touching the muscle and skin could he really believe that he was still alive. Finally, he looked at the giant, his face a mixture of relief and suspition. ‘What kind of cruel trick is this?’ he asked.
‘Trick?’ the magician replied.‘You are the one with the tricks. I see your plan now. You fooled me into healing your wounds so that I would give you the honourable death you desired. But I’m not going to. I am going to make you my slave. We will see how a Fianna warrior enjoys being a lowly servant!’ His lips twisted in an evil grin.
‘No! Kill him now!’ Ailne screamed.
‘Not until I have had my fun with him,’ Draoiantóir insisted. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can always chop his head off if I find that he is not satisfactory.’
Ailne stamped her foot in fury and ran from the dungeon. The giant called to Conán to follow him upstairs.
Fionn could not believe it when he saw Conán obey the magician. How could he willingly serve an enemy of the Fianna? Where was his honour? He was about to shout out a reprimand to Conán, but he thought it would be best not to provoke the giant further while he and his comrades still had their heads on their shoulders.
Conán stopped at the top of the stairs and gasped like a bellows to get more breath into his lungs.
The giant turned and glared at him. ‘Hurry up!’
‘Although my wounds are healed,’ Conán said to him, ‘I am still very weak from the spell you put on me and my former comrades. I cannot work hard for you unless you free me from the enchantment.’
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‘I will give you a drink from the golden drinking-horn,’ Draoiantóir said. ‘Then you will be strong enough to carry out the duties of ten servants.’
They went into the kitchen where Glanluadh and Ailne were sitting. Glanluadh looked up fearfully, afraid of what news the giant might bring about the fate of her husband and the other captives. ‘Hand me the drinking-horn,’ Draoiantóir said to his sister. ‘This slave of mine is still weak from the spell and a drink from it will restore his strength.’
‘Is that wise?’ Ailne asked. ‘I shall not feel safe with a member of the Fianna about the place.’
‘He is no longer one of that treacherous band,’ the giant declared. ‘He serves me now. As for the others, I shall go back and slay them all as soon as I have removed the spell from my servant.’
‘The sooner the better,’ Ailne smiled. ‘I shall feel a lot happier when you have finally chopped off their heads.’
She gave the drinking-horn to her brother, who handed it to Conán. ‘Drink!’ the giant ordered.
Conán took a deep draught of the golden liquid from the horn and was instantly restored to his full strength.
Down in the dungeon, Dara, who had a very fine melodious voice, began to sing one of Fionn’s favourite songs, in order to raise his leader’s spirits.
Draoiantóir heard the sweet music from below. Enchanted by the sound, the giant moved to the open door, forgetting that Conán still held the magical drinking-horn. As if in a trance, Draoiantóir moved down the stairs towards the source of the singing.
Conán saw his chance. He turned his back on Ailne and hid the drinking-horn under his tunic. ‘I had better follow my master,’ he said, leaving the kitchen and going down to the dungeon.
Celtic Tales of Enchantment Page 6
